


In This Quiet Street

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Suburban Neighbourhood, M/M, apologies about the ABBA, the floor is lava
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mowed lawns and identical fences separating evenly spaced homes is all well and good for aesthetics but it’s the unexpected things, a bright red letterbox down the end of the street, the out-of-time ticking of two separate sprinkler systems, that appeal to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Housemate told me to try writing something light, and god knows why but my mind immediately went to "Suburban Neighbourhood AU"! So, here it is. A few tiny notes: Anthea is quite chatty in this fic, be warned. It also pays to know in advance that Joe Strummer and Mick Jones share vocals of the band The Clash. Don't want any confusion, there. Lastly, it's a bit of a slow build to the relationship, sorry about that. All my thanks to fiendfyre for not only being the loveliest of all betas, but also for coming up with the beautiful title. All remaining mistakes are none but my own.

It doesn’t look like the brochure, but then Mycroft didn’t expect it to. He almost prefers it this way. The grass is just a touch too yellow, the paint only a pleasant pale tone due to constant exposure to the sun. But that’s nice, that’s human. It brings character, he thinks. Mowed lawns and identical fences separating evenly spaced homes is all well and good for aesthetics but it’s the unexpected things, a bright red letterbox down the end of the street, the out-of-time ticking of two separate sprinkler systems, that appeal to him.

He unlocks the front door with a firm air of new beginnings, carrying the first box in and setting it on the bare tiled floor. He pulls the brochure from his pocket, lines it up neatly on the kitchen bench, stares at it for a long moment. The emptiness of the house pushes uncomfortably at him, the silence building a pressure in his ears. He braces his shoulders, straightens up and goes back outside.

\--

The first time someone waves to Mycroft, he feels an awkward tensing in his shoulders and forgets to wave back. The second time, he pretends he doesn’t see. He develops a sort of routine, after that. There are not often people about when he arrives home of an afternoon, the sky stained red with remnants of the sun if darkness has not yet claimed it completely. He spends more time than is required at the office because it feels like home to him now. More than his mostly empty house does, the vacant house beside his always making him feel just a little cut off from the other people he sometimes sees chatting over their segregating hedges. He makes himself scarce in an effort to make himself believe his solitude is by choice. 

\--

He keeps odd hours, jumps from work office to home office and tries not to venture far from there. He eats when he must, does likewise with sleep. He forces himself into his own preconception of life and tells himself he’s not disappointed when it turns out exactly as he had expected. At work, he smiles thinly to himself over the thought of a new beginning, realises all he’s done is resumed exactly where he left off, and puts it down to the realities of life to spare himself the onslaught that would come with realising it was his own doing. Nothing would have changed anyway. At least this way his comfort zone remains as in tact as it’s ever been

He allows the weeks to pass in this vein.

\--

The dread builds up in Mycroft before he even hears it, like he can sense a presence in the air. He’s been living his weekends in a mild state of fear at this happening, door always locked but kettle always full just the same. He tells himself he might like it to happen, sometimes, but this notion is always dismissed. He likes the idea of it, more than the manifestation. The camaraderie, the close-knit community, the things that always look so pleasant in the movies. In reality, he thinks he prefers his privacy, his precious free time kept to his own wants, his obligations kept to a minimum.

The knock comes again and Mycroft stretches his legs slowly before sitting up on the bed, feeling the weariness instantly seep into his sore muscles. He wavers briefly at the sight of his feet, toes too long and veins too prominent, but chivalry prevents him from keeping his guests waiting any longer.

He opens the door to an elderly lady, her hands on the shoulders of a boy that cannot be much younger than he is, but clearly does not know how to wear his age.

‘You’ve been hiding in here long enough, now, dear,’ the woman says with a pleasant smile. ‘People are starting to whisper, you know. Mind, not so much as they whisper about dear Henry at number sixteen, they say he’s not quite right in the head, but I think he’s a lovely young man. Just lovely.’

Mycroft’s heart sinks. Yes, it was only a matter of time, after all. The woman is still talking, leaning right over the boy’s shoulder and putting a hand to the side of her mouth as though she is telling a secret, spouting some story about hounds and childhood accidents. She finishes with an abrupt flourish and Mycroft forces his eyes to focus, suddenly aware of the boy’s outstretched hand between them.

‘John,’ he says in a quiet voice.

Mycroft shakes his hand, taking note of the strong grip, and smiles politely at the woman’s chime of, ‘Martha, or Mrs Hudson if you please. A lot of the folk around here look on me as a motherly type, heaven knows there is an absence of age on this street. Just look at you! I daresay you might feel a bit more comfortable with Mrs Hudson.’

Mycroft isn’t quite sure what she means so he clears his throat, introduces himself and offers for them to come inside. Mrs Hudson has all the bustle of someone who feels instantly at home wherever they are, navigating the kitchen with ease and waving John into a chair in the same motion that she flicks the kettle on.

‘Cups, dear?’ she asks offhandedly, amid a pause in yet another neighbourhood story. One about a Harry, Mycroft notes as he collects three teacups from the drawer. It takes him a moment to pick up on the fact that Harry is a girl, and even longer to realise she is being talked about in relation to John. He wonders what exactly it is he missed at the beginning of the story, too startled and mildly panicked at the sight of dust on his table to pay full attention.

‘And that is why John lives with me,’ she concludes sometime later, sipping idly at her mostly forgotten tea whilst John downs the last of his, ‘and Harry sometimes visits during semester breaks.’

‘Oh, well, that’s… very nice.’

Mrs Hudson fixes him with a pitying look, patting John’s hand absently. John is staring down at the table. Mrs Hudson had mentioned he was shy, but Mycroft doesn’t think that’s it. He doesn’t think that’s it at all. He thinks John is bored, without realising it. The kind of boredom that sits deep in your gut, like you’re so ready to get up and going but you’re waiting for a reason to, you’ve been waiting so long you’ve forgotten you even want to. He’s almost like Sherlock, in a way, not that Mycroft feels anything can be adequately compared to Sherlock.

Mycroft’s not sure that he would call Mrs Hudson motherly, despite her assertions, but he thinks she is… pleasant. Chatty, definitely, but he finds himself happy to listen. Pleasant Mrs Hudson, and Bored John.

‘And what is it that you do, dear?’

‘Oh,’ Mycroft swivels his head a little, glances at the open window where a light breeze is drifting through. The air carries the scent of freshly mowed grass, although he doesn’t recall hearing a mower over the course of the morning. There’s a heat that Mycroft’s not entirely used to, sun high in the sky, casting light to every corner of his kitchen. So very different to his family home, almost dreary in comparison. It had been an old building, and not all the money in the world could remove the musty smell in damp weather. This is… well, he supposes this is a lot like the brochure after all. ‘Not a lot, really.’ 

He turns back to Pleasant Mrs Hudson with a small smile. He wishes it didn’t sound so much like small talk, thin and like he’s trying to avoid the topic. He really doesn’t do much. He’s not even so sure where he’s headed in life, anymore. ‘I work for the government, but…’ John nods, like he understands, and Mycroft frowns minutely. He’s not even finished his sentence, has no idea what John thinks he’s agreeing with, if that even is his intention. ‘It’s mostly pushing paper,’ he finishes.

John is still nodding, and Mycroft wants to stop and think about it, run the process through his mind and analyse it from every angle, but Mrs Hudson is saying something. He tries to listen, but he can feel his chest growing a bit tight, his brain lagging over the new subject. He feels uncomfortable all of a sudden, and he’s not at all sure why. He doesn’t want this suburban life, he decides firmly. He doesn’t want these neighbours who invite themselves over, doesn’t want to be dragged into community events and neighbourhood barbeques, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t… doesn’t… want these _expectations_ , because it’s _too much_ , and he’s not sure how to deal with it, and it’s _too much_.

A small hand settles on his shoulder and he swallows, tries to force his mouth into something softer than a tight line.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Hudson is assuring him, ‘no one was hurt, it was just a silly game, see? There, there, just a game.’

Mycroft nods along as John quietly pulls Mrs Hudson back, suggests they take their leave. She agrees with a murmur, and John stands to collect their cups together.

‘I wonder, if you’re not busy,’ Mrs Hudson begins, and Mycroft hears the swishing of water behind him as John washes. He’s grateful, but he wishes John wouldn’t. His methods are not as precise as Mycroft’s, he’s certain. ‘We’re having a dinner on Wednesday, a bit of a weekly thing between some of the other houses and us. Just a small gathering. I don’t suppose you’ve seen many home cooked meals since moving here.’

Mycroft vaguely wonders for a moment if this is a dig at the dust, then puts it down to paranoia.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘That sounds lovely.’

He’s planning the excuse in his head even as he leads them back to the front door, Mrs Hudson taking a long moment to enter her number into his phone while John shifts his weight impatiently between his feet. Mycroft bids them farewell with a wave and takes a detour on the way back to his bedroom to wash the cups correctly. He lies on his back on the bed and clings to his solitude.

\--

By the time night has come around and it’s cool enough to close all the windows, the loneliness starts to set in as it always does. Mycroft thinks about John’s nodding, feels his face heat in embarrassment at his onslaught of suspicion over it and decides maybe some companionship is what he needs after all. Surely it is not natural to fear friendship as much as he does.

\--

At work, Irene eyes him as she always does. She sits on the edge of his desk and moves his carefully placed papers around, drinks freely from his mug and rests her hands on his shoulders in a manner that suggests… well, he’s not sure what she’s trying to suggest. She comments on the little frustrated line between his eyebrows with a laugh that sounds far too amused. He wonders if she’s deliberately trying to rile him up, and then he thinks of Sherlock and forces himself to take a step back from the situation. He thinks about it all day, and when she blows him a kiss from through the window come home time he wonders if she’s trying to be his friend. 

\--

He calls Mrs Hudson and carefully recites his apology, trying to keep her understanding titters to a minimum. He feels a sense of remorse that is oddly close to genuine.

\--

‘How very maudlin of you,’ is the first thing Sherlock says, not yet one foot out of the car. He spends the evening spouting out the occasional ‘domestic’ and ‘civilised’, but overall looks somewhat impressed in his own typical, judgemental way.

‘How is university suiting you?’ Mycroft asks over dinner. Sherlock huffs out an approximation to a laugh, leaning back in his chair, eyebrows raised. When no answer seems forthcoming, Mycroft tries, ‘Have you made any friends?’

‘Have you?’ Sherlock shoots back. Mycroft thinks of Pleasant Mrs Hudson and Bored John, laughing over a Wednesday dinner with the other faces of the street, Mycroft’s seat easily filled with someone else. He thinks of Irene instead and nods slowly.

‘Something like that,’ he says carefully, and Sherlock echoes him. He’s not sure if it’s meant to be agreement or a separate riposte.

\--

Sherlock disappears early the next morning and Mycroft doesn’t see him all day. He takes a short walk to the letterbox in the afternoon and cautiously waves back to the timid man down the street who had been picking somewhat aimlessly at a patch of forget-me-nots.

Mycroft eats his supper with a blissfully blank mind and delves into a novel beneath the covers of his bed before his mind can begin to wander. Sherlock will be back soon.

Sherlock does come back, Mycroft waking with a start to a clanking from downstairs. He blinks at the single digits flashing from his alarm clock and tries to pat his hair down as he trudges out onto the landing.

He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, muddy footprints over half the tiles, broken ceramic over by the sink. Sherlock smiles sheepishly at him and Mycroft glares for a moment, too tired to do anything else.

‘Clean that up,’ he tells Sherlock, ‘and send poor John home.’

John gives a weak wave as Mycroft turns his back and goes back to bed on autopilot.

\--

Bored John has a fire in him after that. Bored John’s face is alight, ears flushed and hair tousled. He’s not bored anymore. He’s Happy John. He’s Pleased John. He’s John who’s getting outside and exerting himself and living life the way he had once imagined he would. He’s Pissed Off John who spends an equal time being annoyed with Sherlock that he does being happy with him.

He’s Alive John.

\--

‘Are you ready?’

Mycroft turns from his desk to find Sherlock with his hands braced against the doorframe, shoes on, coat hanging loosely off his frame, scarf secured around his neck.

‘Ready for what?’ Mycroft asks cautiously. Sherlock makes a sort of _looking at the ceiling because you are simply too idiotic to waste an eye roll on_ move.

‘Wednesday dinner at Mrs Hudson and John’s. I told you yesterday.’

‘Was I in the room?’ Mycroft stands slowly, scanning over his paperwork and making quick calculations in his head.

‘I don’t know, Mycroft. Your every move does not concern me.’ Sherlock turns with a swirl of his coat that is more of a little flutter around his ankles, and Mycroft can hear him stomping down the stairs. He blinks. ‘Hurry up!’ Sherlock’s voice floats up to him.

Oh dear lord. He doesn’t have sufficient time to deliberate between tie and no tie.

\--

He settles on no tie, only because it eliminates the time he would have spent selecting one. He passes Sherlock the bottle of wine at the door, locking it behind him and walking at a measured pace as Sherlock hurries ahead.

Mrs Hudson is at the door when he arrives, Sherlock’s shoes just inside the door but his brother nowhere in sight. Mrs Hudson greets him warmly and he does the same, slipping his own shoes off and picking nervously at his cuffs.

He’s introduced to all the people milling about the dining/kitchen area, nods a polite hello to Not-Bored John before the boy disappears up the stairs after Sherlock, Mycroft’s hand already being clasped by a smallish but nice enough looking man. He meets Sharp Jim and Gentle Molly, the couple next door to Mrs Hudson, and has a good chat to them involving the merits of a good leather shoe before Mrs Hudson’s hands on his shoulders guide him over to meet Timid Henry who is trying to cross his arms and hold his wine glass steady at the same time.

Mycroft says a polite hello and Henry gratefully returns the greeting, everything in his body language soaking up the human interaction. Mycroft takes pity and gestures to the table, taking the seat adjacent to the one Henry chooses.

‘These are all the people we like,’ Mrs Hudson says from above him, in what Mycroft recognises as her _this is a secret that everyone knows_ voice. ‘Those people in the houses past you, oh, you hardly ever see them! And those ones with those nasty children down the end of the street, well I never thought I would call a child nasty but they just have no manners. None at all.’ She hums and pats his shoulder gently. ‘We’re so glad to have you here, finally, Mycroft. It’s a real—‘ She cuts off, scanning across them all and settling on the door. Everyone in the room stops to watch her. ‘Where’s Greg?’ she exclaims at length.

‘Called out by a public disturbance,’ Sharp Jim says in a slow drawl.

‘He thinks he might be promoted soon, so he’s really putting in the hours,’ Gentle Molly chimes in from over his shoulder.

‘I’m sure he’s very sorry,’ Timid Henry murmurs, and Mrs Hudson pats his hair soothingly.

‘Of course he is, dear.’

Mycroft sits awkwardly, nodding a bit but for the most part trying to keep unnoticed. He’s not sure why he wishes so strongly that he had something to add. 

‘No mind,’ Mrs Hudson says jovially, waving her hands as she wanders over to check on the pressure cooker. ‘Next week, I’m sure. I might even make him cook, you know he’s excellent at it.’

There’s a murmur of agreement around the room and Mycroft finds himself joining in. Then Jim falls into the chair beside him and Molly into the one beside Henry and they strike up a conversation over current government policy, which melds into Molly’s gushing over _Mamma Mia!_ the musical and becomes a strange concoction of party leaders and ABBA songs in Mycroft’s head.

\--

John and Sherlock reluctantly join them for dinner, and Sherlock only scowls for a moment before getting caught up in an animate discussion with Jim, John pitching in his two cents every now and then from Sherlock’s other side. Mrs Hudson and Henry ignore them in favour of comparing recipes.

‘Don’t let Greg hear you criticise rosemary,’ Molly breaks in their conversation to say, then turns brightly to Mycroft.

‘Pleasant weather,’ Mycroft begins when Molly seems content to just stare at him, and she smiles brightly.

‘Yes, lovely.’

Mycroft flounders for a moment. He considers asking what she does for a living, but that will surely lead to questions about his own work and he just doesn’t want to answer those right now.

‘Have you read _Mrs Dalloway_?’ she asks suddenly, and Mycroft feels his shoulders relax instantaneously.

‘Yes,’ he breathes, sure that he is feeling entirely too relieved.

‘Good,’ Molly says, angling herself toward him. Mycroft can see her aligning all the facts of the book in her head, ready to start a tirade. He feels a little thrill at the prospect, something to be included in, somewhere to belong. She begins and he finds himself right on her tail.

\--

‘Thank you so much for coming, dear,’ Mrs Hudson tells him at the door, hugging him to her. He’s already received a hug from Molly, and surprisingly one from Jim as well, so he’s not as awkward for this one, finding himself enjoying the brief warmth.

‘Thank you,’ Mycroft says genuinely. ‘I had a wonderful time.’

‘I’m glad.’ She pats his cheek. ‘And don’t worry about Sherlock, we’ll have him home before midnight.’

Mycroft nods his thanks and waves his hand a little as he sets out back home, feeling… well, he supposes he could say comfortable.

\--

The walk home is pleasant, the chill not yet having developed a bite. Mycroft feels his cheeks flush in the cold and notes as he walks that the air smells somehow fresher than it did before.

Outside the vacant house next door a car is parked, two doors and the boot open but no one in sight. Mycroft stands on the footpath, peering into the darkness that lies beyond the house’s windows. He’s considering the merits of checking everything is all right here and having an evening tea in his kitchen instead when a woman stumbles down the front steps. She spots him and stops abruptly.

‘Do you live here?’ she asks. She’s young, only John’s age, if that.

‘I live—‘ Mycroft points to his house, just past the hedge.

‘Who with?’

Mycroft flinches, just slightly. ‘Just myself,’ he says.

She nods vigorously and rounds the car to pull some boxes toward her. ‘You must be rich, then,’ she says offhandedly. ‘Me too.’

Mycroft ums, uncertain whether it was supposed to be a segue or not, not sure how to continue. He falters, swinging his arms slightly, glancing between her and the safety of his own home. Dread settles somewhere beneath his throat and he smooths his hand over it, swallowing and standing straight.

‘Well?’ she waves her hand between him and the box. ‘Going to be neighbourly? I can offer you tea. I know that’s what you boys are always after.’

Mycroft’s not sure he’s ever felt so uncomfortable in his life, but his fingers are still tingling with phantom warmth from Mrs Hudson, human interaction sitting proudly inside his chest like some sort of accomplishment. He breathes slowly, thinks nothing ventured nothing gained, and holds his hands out for the box. It’s only polite, after all.

\--

An hour later finds him standing in the middle of a mostly empty kitchen, trying to keep his full cup of tea from spilling whilst the newly-dubbed Anthea sits on the windowsill and spins him a ridiculous tale resulting in her moving house under nightfall. He’s somewhat impressed at her seamless storytelling, but mostly fascinated at how she’s keeping balanced on such a thin surface. It keeps him from thinking about himself, how out of place he feels and how he’s not quite sure how he should stand, or what to do with his arm.

Anthea eventually wraps up the story with a ‘Spies, you know. Classified,’ and shrugs her shoulders. They somehow make it through two more conversations that seem to have an impossibly smooth flow considering the amount of topics they cover, before Anthea declares it time for bed. She takes Mycroft’s cup from him, which he supposes is a nice thing for her to do, but doesn’t deign to walk him to the door.

She calls out a, ‘Hey! We’re friends now, okay?’ after him, though, so he’s not too put out.

A friend. Might be nice.

\--

He tries to make an effort, at first. Takes up a wide-brimmed hat and a borrowed spade from Henry, pulls gloves on and tries to ignore the irritating clamminess of sunscreen clinging to his face. The street doesn’t bear much in way of backyards, the occasional clothesline strung against a back fence. It seems more a front yard orientated place, far enough away from any main roads that Mycroft can imagine barbeques and children chasing each other between yards. The occasional bout of cricket on the road if what he’s seen in the media is to be believed. It’s got a sort of cul-de-sac feel - if such an atmosphere can exist outside a cul-de-sac. He supposes it’s part of the communal environment they’ve got going on.

Mycroft hasn’t seen any street-cricket yet, but then he supposes he’s not been around long enough to see anything at all. But he’s trying. Well, he’s _going_ to try. Make this house a home, as they say. Soak in the sun and the quality of life, and whatever else it was the damn brochure was spouting on about.

Gardening. It seems as good a place as any to begin, and Mycroft’s _got_ his spade, did the friendly neighbour thing by asking for it, suffered the motions of rubbing sun lotion into his skin. He’s all set and he’s ready to go, but the flowerbeds are bare and that’s all right, that looks okay. He sort of likes that. There’s not much weeding to be done, but a few flowers wouldn’t hurt to brighten them up. Mycroft’s never been one for sentiment, but he looks down at the compact dirt and thinks it’s plain but it’s nice. It’s him.

Then again, maybe he’s reading too much into it. This is stupid, he decides. It’s tedious and it’s more effort than it’s worth.

He returns the spade, has a shower and hunkers down in his home office.

\--

He starts arriving home earlier of an afternoon, has not even closed the door behind him when Anthea is on his doorstep, grinning brightly and holding up two teabags.

‘Let me in, I’ve brought tea,’ she proclaims brightly.

‘I have tea here,’ Mycroft says slowly, and she pushes past him to wander into his kitchen.

‘I know, but this way you have to let me in. We’ll use your tea, though. I’m keeping these,’ and she tucks them into her pocket. ‘Have you met the other neighbours?’ She hops up onto the counter, picking the kettle up and shaking it. It’s close to empty, Mycroft knows. She holds it out to him, and he takes it over to the sink to fill it up.

‘Yes, I’ve had dinner with them.’

‘They’re nice. Bit weird, some of them. That shy one’s a bit cute.’

‘Henry,’ Mycroft supplies.

‘Yeah. And Molly’s the same as she was in high school. Bit of an odd boyfriend, but I suppose he’s nice. Oh, and I met old Mrs Hudson and those two guys that live there.’

Mycroft pauses, electric kettle hovering over the base. He sets it down with a click and turns to the teacup drawer. ‘John,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid the other one doesn’t live there. He unfortunately takes the title of being my brother.’

Anthea ducks her head to study his face. ‘Oh yeah,’ she says offhandedly, ‘I guess I see it. Wait.’ She stops, looking oddly offended. ‘You said you lived alone!’

‘I do,’ Mycroft assures her. He gestures toward the sugar and Anthea holds up three fingers. Mycroft blanches. ‘He’s at university for most of the year. Mid-semester break.’

‘Well,’ Anthea hops down from her perch, seemingly appeased. ‘He was the weirdest one. You’re a good’un, though.’ She punches his arm. He’s sure she didn’t mean for it to hurt. ‘Oh,’ she snaps her fingers together suddenly. ‘There was another bloke, did you meet him?’

‘Greg,’ Mycroft says, and, ‘no.’

‘Me neither.’ Anthea nods her head, like this is a shared achievement. Mycroft slides her cup across to her and she thanks him, blowing carefully on the top of it. ‘Are you busy tonight?’ she asks.

Mycroft rubs his arm self-consciously. ‘No?’ he wagers. ‘I had some paperwork I was going to attend to, but—’

‘No,’ she waves a hand at him. ‘Do that. I’m going to read. Do you want to order in?’

‘Um. Yes, all right.’

She smiles brightly at him.

\--

Anthea offers to pay, seeing as though she’s the one ‘crashing’, but in the end they split it fifty/fifty. Anthea takes her empty plate to the kitchen instead of setting it down on the ground like Sherlock does, which Mycroft appreciates, then lounges sideways on Mycroft’s favourite armchair, book held open above her face.

Mycroft settles down cross-legged at the coffee table, going over his papers with a pen and a box of paperclips on standby, occasionally glancing up to check on her. It’s companionable, the gentle sliding of her pages complementing the scratching of his pen tip. It’s nice. It’s… new.

She turns the television on sometime around nine o’clock but keeps the volume low, so Mycroft doesn’t mind. By nine-thirty she’s snoring gently, and Mycroft decides to just wait it out. Sherlock comes home at ten, frowning at Anthea and then at Mycroft, who shrugs.

‘Have you eaten?’ Mycroft asks, quiet so as not to wake her up, but she sits with a start anyway. Sherlock nods quickly and disappears up the stairs while Anthea yawns and stretches.

‘I’m busy tomorrow,’ she tells him tiredly, as though he had asked. ‘But I’ll see you the day after?’

Mycroft nods, and she touches his shoulder before she leaves.

\--

Mycroft thinks for one blissful moment that he’s managed to start the mower after all, before he realises the noise is coming from a distance – and getting closer. A motorbike turns onto the street and Mycroft panics for a moment, wanting to look like he’s doing something but not wanting to show there’s something wrong with his mower. He settles for awkwardly checking the empty letterbox, keeping his head bowed but eyes trained on the bike as the engine cuts and it uses the last of its momentum to roll up onto a driveway. The figure on the bike swings their leg over, patting their hands over the leather jacket until fingers disappear into one of the pockets and come out with a set of keys attached to a garage remote. They remove their helmet as they wait for the garage door to open, and Mycroft flounders when the young man underneath looks in his direction.

The man gives a short wave and Mycroft awkwardly lifts his hand in response, checking quickly behind him that there’s no one else for the man to be waving to. Paranoia. Mycroft watches him roll his bike into the garage, door closing again behind him, and turns back to his mower. He pushes it uncertainly with his foot, wondering if he should give the cord another yank or just give it up for a lost cause.

He’s crouched down by it, trying to see if something’s stuck underneath, when a shadow falls over him.

‘Do you need some help?’ asks the motorbike man, and Mycroft swivels his head around on instinct to see who he’s talking to. The man frowns a little, but smiles regardless, front teeth jutting out over his bottom lip a bit. Mycroft flushes and gets to his feet.

‘Oh, well.’ Mycroft hovers somewhere between a yes and a no, trying to determine which would be the lesser of two evils. ‘If you think you could,’ he awkwardly settles on.

‘I can give it a try.’ The man bends over to take a look at the mower, and his spine pulls the material tight. Mycroft notes that his shirt is the tiniest bit transparent, dark epaulettes at his shoulders. Police. Constable. The trousers are ironed, insinuating pride in his uniform, but the shirttails are untucked. He’s probably tired, Mycroft thinks. Maybe he’s had a rough day, was looking forward to coming home and relaxing. Able to take his belt off, collapse onto his sofa with a beer. And Mycroft has disturbed that.

‘You don’t have to,’ he says quickly, at the same time that the man braces his foot on the mower and yanks upward on the cord. The mower roars to life, drowning out Mycroft’s words.

‘What was that?’ the man asks, leaning in close to Mycroft. He smells nice. That’s not an odd thing; Mycroft thinks a lot of people smell nice. It’s one of the first things he notices about a person. It doesn’t mean anything. 

Mycroft shakes his head and says, ‘Nothing, thank you!’

‘Greg.’ The man raises a hand between them, and Mycroft clasps it firmly. ‘Lestrade.’

‘Mycroft Holmes,’ he replies. ‘I’ve heard about you.’ No, that was an idiotic thing to say. Good lord.

The man grins again. He’s got stubble up close, but it’s intentional and kept neat like his short hair. ‘Mycroft, yeah, Mrs Hudson mentioned you. Nice to finally meet you.’

‘You too,’ Mycroft nods, but Greg is already backing up, gesturing to the purring mower. Mycroft gives it a little push, not actually watching Greg walk back to his house, per se, just staring in that general direction. The mower is harder to move then he thought it would be, and he wonders how long he needs to keep the motor going in order for it not to be suspicious should he turn it off. He should have told Sherlock to do this, when he was here. 

\--

 _I met him_ , he types, and debates over it for a long time. He thumbs through his contacts until he finds Anthea, then shakes his head and deletes the whole message. It’s not important.

\--

Sherlock visits for two weekends in a row and Mycroft barely sees him over that time, although he does spent a Sunday afternoon nursing Henry back to health after Sherlock and John’s chasing of a large black dog down the street nearly scared the daylights out of him.

He offers for Henry to stay for dinner and the poor man looks so relieved that Mycroft thinks for a moment he understands how dear old Mrs Hudson must feel about them all.

\--

He watches Irene at work, pays attention twice a day and takes particular note. When he’s sure he knows, he makes her coffee. Takes her favoured mug, measures the teaspoons with precision. When he brings it to her, she eyes him carefully, suspicion sloppily pasted over some other emotion altogether.

‘What’s this for?’ she asks, and she doesn’t mean it as a thank you, but Mycroft will take it as one because he knows her well enough by now to understand.

‘It’s all I could think of to do for you,’ Mycroft answers in a level voice. It’s only right to give after one takes, and Irene will either see this for what it is or she won’t, but it’s progress on Mycroft’s part.

Irene, looking as haggard as Mycroft has ever seen her, weary and overworked, blows him a kiss on his way out.

\--

Molly throws a _Mamma Mia! Coming Out On DVD_ party, which finds Mycroft standing in her and Jim’s front yard, nursing a beer that he’s not really enjoying so much and criticising their flowerbeds with Henry. He uses the word criticising lightly. It’s… fond criticising. Jim is standing over a barbeque, looking panicked and yelling for John to go and get Greg.

John bounds across the road and returns moments later with Greg in tow, the older man calling apologies for his lateness even as he buttons his shirt. He hastily takes the tongs from Jim and flips the steaks over.

‘Too hot, too hot,’ he murmurs, turning the heat down. Mycroft forces himself to look away and pay attention to Henry again.

‘It’s kind of the only thing I’ve got going for me, my flowers,’ Henry is saying nervously.

‘That’s not true,’ Mycroft murmurs. ‘You’ve got looks, and personality.’ And money, but he doesn’t think it would help to bring that up. He means it, though. Henry could be a catch, if one was attracted to those types of men. Mycroft likes… well, he tends to go for a different type.

‘You’re great, what lucky lady wouldn’t snap you up!’ booms a voice, much louder than his or Henry’s, and Greg suddenly has his arms wrapped around Henry’s torso, lifting him briefly off his feet and back down again.

‘Thanks,’ Henry says, ears flushed. Greg comes to stand between them, clasping Mycroft’s shoulder.

‘Hello again, Mycroft Holmes!’

Mycroft smiles at him and says a timid hello.

‘Do you want…?’ Greg points to Mycroft’s beer, then makes a small noise to himself and wanders away from them. Henry picks up a new thread of conversation that quickly peters out and he excuses himself just as Greg returns. ‘For you,’ he says, taking the beer from Mycroft and offering him a champagne flute instead.

Mycroft falls on it enthusiastically, washing the taste of hops from his mouth. He must look far too pleased because Greg laughs.

‘So,’ Greg begins. ‘Big ABBA fan, are you?’ Mycroft’s indecision apparently shows on his face and Greg nods understandingly. ‘Don’t worry, we all secretly love them a little bit, although none so much as Molly, I must say.’ He gazes around in the direction of the house, where Molly’s form hurries past the kitchen window. ‘More of a Clash man, myself, but I don’t see any musicals being made for them.’

‘Perhaps they’re just waiting for the call up.’ Mycroft sips from his glass, horrified at the reference he’s just made. Greg stares for a moment, then his face breaks out into a full grin, eyes crinkling at the edges as he chuckles.

‘ _Sandinista!_ Mycroft Holmes, I’m impressed. Wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan, but Mrs H did tell me I would be surprised by you.’

Mycroft would wonder what that’s supposed to imply, but he’s too busy revelling in the satisfaction of making a handsome man laugh.

‘Come,’ Greg takes his elbow. ‘I’ve got to supervise Jim’s cooking but I want to talk to you more. Holmes,’ he grins. ‘Mycroft Holmes. It’s a good name, I like it. Solid.’

‘I don’t think… anyone’s ever told me that before,’ Mycroft says.

‘No? Well they should. Now, tell me more about this unexpected music taste of yours.’

\--

Anthea shows up just before lunch is about to be served, making jokes about being ‘fashionably late’ that Mycroft’s not really sure why everyone’s laughing at. She comes to stand by Mycroft immediately, eyes moving slowly up and down Greg’s frame. His eyes widen in response.

‘You must be Greg,’ she says, proffering a hand. Were it anyone else, Mycroft would have cringed at the boldness of it. As it is, Greg takes the hand, bowing at the waist and pressing his mouth to her knuckles.

‘It’s been a long time, Ms Anthea.’

Mycroft endures their exchanges of ‘look at how tall you’ve gotten!’ and ‘you’ve filled in nicely’s with a mild feeling of trepidation, eventually offering to get Anthea a drink. Molly intercepts him along the way, grabbing his hands and making him sing _Waterloo_ with her.

\--

After lunch - during which Anthea whispers, ‘I knew him when I was five,’ into his ear and proceeds to raises her eyebrows up and down for a solid minute – they all settle down onto the sofas in the living room while Molly makes a show of snapping open the brand new DVD case. Mycroft had seen Sherlock and John earlier, hefting a sofa from Mrs Hudson’s next door into Jim and Molly’s living room, but they’d disappeared not too soon after.

The opening credits have Molly nearly in tears already, crooning _I Have A Dream_ into Jim’s ear as Mrs Hudson holds her clasped hands up to her chin and smiles gently. Jim casts a trapped look at Greg, who chuckles from his spot wedged between Anthea and the arm of one of the sofas. Mycroft sits on her other side, wryly supressing his own urge to sing along.

Anthea gives him a knowing stare, looking vaguely disgusted - though by the time Meryl Streep is balancing on the roof singing _Mamma Mia_ , she’s on her feet, jumping and making disco points at all the members of the room. Mycroft would laugh but he’s too busy singing along, Jim and Greg eventually surpassing them all in an attempt to outdo each other’s singing. Their group’s finish is much more climatic than the movie’s, Mycroft thinks to himself, feeling more joyful than he thinks he ever has in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Who is that?’ Anthea runs into his home office to ask, pressing her nose to the window and gesturing him over. ‘Mycroft, come look.’

Mycroft lifts her hand from the glass so he can see through it, eyes drawn to the only two figures on the street. One is Greg, donned in his riding leathers, making animate hand motions toward the second. It’s hard to see from such a distance, but the height and head of thick curls suggest female, dark skin, confident posture.

‘We have to get closer,’ Anthea is murmuring beside him.

‘No,’ Mycroft demands, catching her arm when she tries to move away. ‘Leave them be.’

‘Well at least let me get my binoculars,’ Anthea says with an air of long suffering. Mycroft laughs as she disappears from the room. He’s not sure he’s prepared when she returns, binoculars held firmly over her eyes.

‘God help you,’ he says tiredly.

\--

‘There is a delicious woman here to see you.’ Irene pokes her head around the entryway to his office. ‘Please tell me someone is taking advantage of those sinful lips.’

‘Irene, please,’ Mycroft sighs, but he can feel the edges of his mouth tugging upward.

‘Darling,’ Irene leans over the front of his desk, pursing her lips at him. ‘Tell me she prefers a woman’s touch.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mycroft tells her firmly. ‘But she is a nice young lady who doesn’t need sullying by your sultry advances.’

Irene traces her fingers across her neatly painted lips. ‘Oh, but the nice young ones are my _favourite_ type.’ 

Mycroft is just getting to his feet when Anthea comes to stand in the doorway.

‘Mycroft, hurry up. That secretary is giving me weird looks and she growled, actually _growled_ , when I knocked something off her desk.’

Irene turns to lean back against the desk, gazing through hooded eyes.

‘One moment,’ Mycroft tells Anthea, filing documents away and putting the rest of the items in his desk drawer, locking it afterward. To Irene he gives a pointed look and a stern, ‘Goodnight Irene.’

‘Goodnight, my darling,’ she purrs back without sparing a glance for him. ‘And a fabulous night to you,’ she sends Anthea’s way. Anthea smirks and Mycroft wonders for a moment whether they would make a good pair after all. There’s a body language they share that Mycroft’s never seen on anyone else before – seen them able to pull off, in any case. But they’re both too headstrong, too familiar with the other one’s tricks. It would never work.

‘You too,’ Anthea replies, and by the look her and Irene are currently sharing, Mycroft’s sure that’s not what was really said at all.

‘This way,’ he says quietly, snagging his coat with one hand and her elbow with the other, guiding her away.

\--

‘Where are we going,’ he asks, exasperated, when Anthea takes yet another turn away from home.

‘I thought we could go for a drink,’ she says lightly, with something that Mycroft doesn’t feel comfortable labelling a smirk. ‘At a pub,’ she continues, like it’s some great joke. Mycroft supposes it is.

‘God,’ he groans.

\--

‘Who are you looking for?’ Mycroft repeats, trying to rest his elbow on the cleanest patch of table.

‘No one, stop asking me questions!’ Anthea hisses, sitting up on her knees to better scan the room. ‘Oh!’ she ducks quickly, peering around the side of the booth to watch the door. Mycroft feels the blood drain from his face at the sight of familiar motorcycle leathers, the recognisable curls of his companion and the longer, greasier hair of another.

‘Anthea!’ he whispers, not sure if he’s furious or panicked or something else. ‘Please tell me you didn’t plan this. Lord, how did you even _know_?’

‘A magician never tells!’ she shoots back at him. ‘It’s not technically stalking, anyway,’ she continues, turning back around to watch the newly entered group. Mycroft groans (more of a keen, really, but he ignores that), and buries his face in his hands.

‘Wait here,’ Anthea tells him, and he hears her vinyl seat squeak as she stands. He’s too horrified to watch her progress, tries to hide his face with his hands instead and wonders how painful this is going to be. Maybe she’ll forget about him and he can quietly leave. If he slips outside now she might even be too preoccupied to notice.

He lifts his head when he hears his name being called, horrified to see Anthea and Greg both waving their arms at him, Greg’s companions looking oddly amused. Mycroft picks nervously at his cuffs as he stands, half-heartedly trying to smooth down his tie before moving to join them.

\--

There’s a system, and it goes like this:

Wonderful Anthea watches Fierce Sally.  
Fierce Sally watches Greasy Anderson.  
Greasy Anderson watches Wonderful Anthea.

Mycroft and Handsome Greg watch them all.

Greg’s smell is a pleasant musk of day-old cologne and something very masculine. He has an uneven patch in his stubble, which Mycroft finds unduly endearing, and at some point during the night his hand touches Mycroft’s - although he thinks this was an accident. It doesn’t stop the warmth from spreading inside of Mycroft. The pub is a rumble of chatter and the occasional yell at a football game Mycroft cannot see, and Greg has to lean in close to be heard. It doesn’t help, half the time, and Mycroft nods along aimlessly to most of his stories. He’s not sure he’d be able to focus properly regardless, with Greg filling so much of his personal space.

Mycroft acquires Anthea’s car keys after some time, when he realises that she’s still ordering drinks for them both and not noticing she’s drinking double. It puts her in an affectionate mood and she laughs often, eyes bright and limbs heavy. She looks very young. Every now and then she strikes up a conversation with Greasy Anderson, which Mycroft puts down to friendliness until he notices how she needs to lean across Sally to talk to the man, pressing in with her arm slung across the back of Sally’s shoulders. Mycroft gives her points for creativity, on that one. From the way Greg is smirking beside him, he thinks Greg does also.

It’s a nice night, really, and Mycroft only has the beginnings of a headache forming when Greg touches his knee and yells into his ear, ‘I’m really glad you two showed up.’ He’s had more than a few, but is managing to hold his own. Mycroft would say he’s smiling a lot more, but from what he’s seen, Greg is a naturally smiley person regardless. It’s quite charming. No, well, it’s… it’s… Mycroft waves the thought aside. He’ll correct it in the morning. ‘It really brightened the whole night. ‘We should do it again sometime.’

Mycroft nods at him, not confident enough to raise his voice that loud. He rescues Anthea from embarrassing herself further with a story that has Sally bent over, hand over her mouth and tears in the corners of her eyes as she laughs. He thinks the embarrassment may actually be working in her favour.

‘Home time,’ he tells her, pulling her up and grabbing her wrists before she can try to blow a kiss. He waves it for her instead in answer to Sally and Anderson and Greg’s collective waving, supporting her weight as best he can on the short walk to the car, depositing her in the front seat and buckling her in.

‘Greg is so nice,’ she says, head drooping down onto her own shoulder as he drives. ‘He has really nice friends. He grew up nicely.’

‘Yes he did,’ Mycroft agrees softly.

\--

Anthea is hung-over the next day, stumbling into Mycroft’s living room sometime past lunch and constructing a cocoon out of Mycroft’s feather duvet to block the outside world with. Mycroft sits close by, forces tea and sandwiches on her when he deems necessary and works through a few chapters of his novel when her soft snores eventually start up.

Her head and torso emerge again as dusk is setting in and she blinks blearily at the window before declaring offhandedly that they should make a campfire sometime.

‘And what would we do with it?’ Mycroft says from behind the fingers resting on his mouth, scanning the last few lines that mark the end of chapter thirty-two.

‘Sing over it.’ Anthea sighs and stretches her legs out, arching her back and groaning when it makes a satisfying crack. ‘Campfire songs, you know? Roast marshmallows or something, I don’t know.’

Mycroft hums noncommittally. ‘What would we sing?’ he murmurs. She’s silent for a long moment, thinking or zoned out or possibly asleep again.

‘Johnny Cash,’ she decides on finally. ‘My dad liked him.’

Mycroft notes the tense, but says nothing.

\--

‘Can I sleep in your bed?’ she asks when the second of the Saturday night movies has finished, Mycroft barely noting the rolling credits in his mostly dozing state. He shrugs tiredly, devoid of both the time and the energy required to construct a refusal. He’s not sure she would accept it, in any case.

Anthea mumbles the whole way to the bedroom, bouncing on the bed and rolling under the covers on the far left side. She’s chatting aimlessly, something involving comfort and back support, and Mycroft eyes her wearily through the bathroom door. He gives a questioning look when he slides into bed beside her - beside still being the appropriate term despite the good arm’s length of space between them. His weight wavers precariously on the edge of the mattress for a moment and he prays he won’t fall off in the night. He’s never been the most comfortable of bed sharers, never really been a bed sharer full stop.

‘Do you fancy Greg?’ Anthea asks abruptly, turning onto her side. ‘I mean, no. I mean, just… do you like him? Do you think you’re friends?’

Mycroft closes his eyes. He’s not going to think about that, not going to dive into subjectivism and interpretation of actions and get his mind in a whirl.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he says quietly.

He’d thought Anthea might laugh, might make some lewd remark, but she lies still instead. He listens to her pulling in shallow breaths.

‘I suppose you do also,’ she says at last. ‘I suppose you do a lot.’ She smiles at him, well and truly the Anthea Mycroft knows once more and not this sudden quiet version. ‘I think you should make your move.’

Mycroft grimaces, thinks count to ten, count sheep, think about politics. He’s used to her playing these sorts of games with him, seeking a reaction he is not often prone to give. Although this doesn’t have quite the same feel, hangs in the air like a challenge but accumulates anticipation like a build-up.

He asks, ‘Do you say this for my benefit, or do you stand to gain from the result?’

‘Well, you two,’ she motions vaguely with her hand, as though that is a sentence he can easily finish himself, and then sighs. ‘Sally.’

‘Yes, Sally,’ Mycroft echoes. Sally with determined eyes and confident hands and a surprisingly soft smile, who laughs with and not at. Sally who sat very close to Greasy Anderson, but somehow ended the night pressed to Anthea instead. He wonders. ‘Fierce Sally,’ he says absently, and he thinks the noise Anthea makes is in agreement but it’s the only sound to come from her for a long time.

He stares up at his dark ceiling, listening to her even breaths and not really thinking about anything at all. Not thinking about the line of dialogue Anthea hadn’t said, her visible thoughts that Mycroft had closed his eyes to. He imagines instead what she and Sally might be like as two of those people whose names always comes right after each other in speech. Anthea and Sally, Sally and Anthea. He’s not going to think about Handsome Greg.

He doesn’t think about him long into the morning.

\--

Mycroft relapses.

It’s the human condition to create beauty where there is none, to belittle what contains beauty naturally, to look at something spectacular and decide it doesn’t meet one’s expectations. Synthetic reality, that’s the bubble of life, that’s where everyone is living. That’s what this street is, an image of something that never even existed. Happy families on the brochure, pets and nature and an abundance of sunny days.

This is England, Mycroft thinks aggressively. God save the queen and not the people.

The guilt crashes down almost immediately, and Mycroft sits heavily, head in his hands. It’s the human condition to never achieve satisfaction, and Mycroft has never even been close. He never had a chance. 

\--

Greg answers the door from a good metre away, balancing on a cushion with a broom in his hand.

‘Sorry it took so long,’ he says sheepishly. ‘It was a bit of a struggle to get it open.’

‘That’s… fine.’ Mycroft eyes the scattering of pillows and shirts and what looks like a towel on the floor. Joe Strummer is crowing somewhere in the background. ‘Is this a bad time?’

‘Oh,’ Greg touches the back of his hand to his head, sighing dramatically. ‘You’ve caught me at a _terrible_ time. My floor’s turned to lava!’

‘You’re not…’ Mycroft shuffles his feet back a bit, away from the doorstep, ‘serious?’

Greg seems to deflate a little. ‘Just a bit of fun,’ he says with a shrug. ‘You don’t have to play along. Come in, come in!’

Mycroft toes off his shoes and raises an eyebrow pointedly at Greg. The man grins and takes a measured step onto the shirt behind him, leaving the cushion free for Mycroft to hop onto. They somehow manage to navigate into the living room and Mycroft collapses gratefully onto the sofa while Greg kneels on the coffee table, stretching an arm out to flick through his vinyl shelf.

‘Aha!’ Greg plucks out a worn record slip, flicking his wrist around in order to scan over the back quickly. He shuffles over to the edge of the table where the record player sits, Mick Jones crying unfair about something or other. Greg sings a line with him before cutting the music with a regretful, ‘sorry, fellas.’

He waves the record slip at Mycroft. ‘Madness, _The Rise & Fall_. Always sounds better on vinyl.’

He flicks the needle on somewhere around the middle, launching immediately into fading lyrics concerning Sunday lunches.

‘Come on,’ Greg says as the song comes to a close, the record player crackling softly in the brief lull. ‘Get up, dance!’ he cries as a jaunty low piano tune strikes up. He starts shaking his hips from side to side in a way that causes Mycroft second-hand embarrassment. Mycroft chuckles and shakes his head fiercely.

‘Our house,’ Greg sings, kicking his feet up, ‘in the middle of our street! Lava,’ he sings over the rest of the chorus, pointing down to the carpet, ‘don’t let it touch your feet!’

Mycroft lets out a proper laugh at that, and when he looks up Greg is staring at him, sporting entirely too bright eyes and too soft features. Mycroft tilts his head away from the attention, and Greg either notices his slight discomfort or has excellent timing for he immediately starts stretching a foot out to the nearest shirt, announcing that tea is on its way as he dances haltingly and across many pillows to the kitchen.

\--

Mycroft waves to Henry when he gets home, waves to Mrs Hudson checking her mail, to the nasty children on the other side of his house who do their best to ignore him. Mycroft doesn’t mind, he’s feeling charitable.

He puts down his briefcase on the kitchen table, flicks the kettle on and drums his fingers uncertainly. The boiler clicks just as he’s subjecting himself to another horrid round of sunscreen, and he ignores his afternoon tea for first time he can remember since adolescence in favour of digging out his hat from the laundry.

Henry looks unabashedly pleased to see Mycroft wander into his front yard, stands quickly and bounces excitably from foot to foot. He cradles a pile of sunflower seeds in his hand, holds them out for Mycroft to see and says that they probably won’t grow but he thought he’d just give it a try anyway.

Mycroft digs and Henry plants and when they’re finished, the dirt still looks plain and bare but Henry grins like they’re sharing a secret and that’s reward enough.

\--

Friday eventually rears its beautiful head once more and Anthea walks into his kitchen at five on the dot, holding a bottle of sherry by the neck with one hand. She’s got the cork on the table and two glasses filled to the brim before Mycroft’s had sufficient time to greet her.

‘I need you to drink this,’ she tells him in lieu of her own greeting. ‘All of it.’ She gives a pointed look toward one of the glasses then leans back against the bench. Mycroft gingerly takes the stem of the glass between two fingers, somewhat concerned at the level of wine in it. He gestures for her to take the other and she shakes her head. ‘No, I need you to down that and then drink this one, too. Hurry.’

Mycroft puts the glass down and crosses his arms. ‘Why?’ he asks. Anthea crosses her arms to mimic him, mouth downturned and unhappy.

‘I need you to make a move on Greg already. I need to get closer to Sally. Mycroft—’ she frowns at his amused smirk. ‘You don’t understand. I _need_ to get closer to her. I’m wasting away without her in my life! Look at me!’ She shakes an arm in his face. ‘Withering away to nothing! Oh god.’

She collapses into one of his kitchen chairs and doubles over her knees, face in her hands and hair forming a curtain around her. Mycroft wonders if they’ve reached the stage of their friendship where he can touch her freely, and rests his hand on her shoulder, patting awkwardly.

‘I just want her to love me, is that really so much to ask?’ comes her muffled voice.

‘It’s a bit to ask.’ Mycroft takes a long sip out of one of the glasses until he’s sure it won’t spill and moves it in a tempting motion in front of Anthea’s downturned head. She sighs and takes it, sitting back in her chair.

‘Well, I still want you to drink that one,’ she says.

\--

Anthea detours back home to get another bottle. She returns with two.

\--

‘Say it again,’ Anthea cuts herself off mid-sentence to demand.

‘Say what?’ Mycroft asks. His shoulders are shaking. Is he laughing? He doesn’t think so, maybe he’s crying. He’ll sort it out later.

‘No,’ Anthea shushes him. ‘Your name for her. Tell me again what it is.’

‘Oh! Fierce Sally!’ Mycroft makes a growling noise then promptly falls onto his back on the carpet and covers his face with his hands. ‘I regret that,’ he murmurs.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Anthea drags herself over to lie next to him. ‘Drink this,’ she offers, and Mycroft sits up long enough to drain the rest of the glass. ‘What’s your name for me, then?’

‘Wonderful.’ Mycroft thinks about taking her hand, but he’s not sure if it’s his place to do so, and so he rests his hands across his stomach instead. ‘Wonderful Anthea.’

‘Wonderful,’ she repeats, and Mycroft hums. ‘And Greg?’ she says, very close to his ear. Mycroft laughs and closes his eyes.

‘Nothing. No, he’s just Greg.’

‘Just Greg,’ she agrees. ‘Beautiful Smile Greg.’

Mycroft mumbles an agreement, says, ‘Yes, but no.’

‘Soft Hair Greg. Motorbike Greg. Oh,’ Anthea claps her hands somewhere above him. ‘Rabbit Greg. Beautiful Rabbit Teeth Greg.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ he approves tiredly.

‘Happy Greg.’

‘Just Greg,’ Mycroft tells her. ‘Just Handsome Greg.’

She makes a delighted noise and he lets out a belated moan.

‘That’s not it,’ he says quickly. Her fingers come to rest in his hair, stroking softly for a moment. Then he hears her stand and there’s the clink of wine glasses being picked up.

‘That’s it,’ she says before she disappears into the other room. Mycroft’s stomach gives an uncomfortable churn, which he resolutely blames on the sherry.

\--

Two Wednesdays in a row see Mycroft working late, trying to juggle all his projects at once and having to be coaxed out of a panic attack by Irene when the power in the building suddenly cuts come the third.

He stresses about lost computer documents and she wraps him in his coat, sending him on his way with instructions to head straight to Mrs Hudson’s and forget about work until tomorrow. She’ll stay and talk to the IT technicians, just don’t stress, darling.

He sags gratefully into Mrs Hudson’s hug when he gets there, surprised to see only Greg and John seated at the table.

‘Quiet time of year,’ she says in a rush, stumbling over her words to get to the, ‘but don’t worry, I always more than enough should a ring in appear!’ part of the sentence.

He devours his meal with more gusto than he thought he possessed and starts up an easy back-and-forth with John afterward about the youth of today – where one’s pants must sit and what can be classed as an appropriate haircut. John speaks in a tone that impresses Mycroft, radiates a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself. Greg watches them both with a fond smile and throws in the occasional ludicrous suggestion to throw them off.

The conversation is eventually given up after Greg reaches out a hand to block John’s nose whilst the boy is mid-sentence, and he in return grabs Greg by the head and musses his hair furiously. Mrs Hudson smacks Greg on the side of the head, too, for good measure then pats his wayward hair down for him. Mycroft feels his shoulders relax, finally.

\--

A quiet few weeks pass. Come the end of the year everyone is always a little overwhelmed by work, in a rush to get everything done in time. Anthea’s side of the hedge remains oddly silent, and even Mrs Hudson’s Wednesday dinners have been put on temporary hiatus.

There’s a hush over the street, broken only by the odd lawn mower and demands from Mrs Hudson as she decorates her yard and goes door-knocking to make sure everyone’s going to put up at least one string of Christmas lights outside their house. She offers Mycroft a dusty box of fairy lights at his door and he takes them with a warm smile, too pleased at being included in their tradition to consider refusing.

He and Anthea, on one of the few afternoons he finds her actually home, stare up at their collective roofs with identical resigned looks. In silent agreement they trudge down the pathway to the familiar driveway of one G. Lestrade before arguing silently over who should knock on the door.

Stubborn as Mycroft can be at times, he knows when he’s defeated. He knocks on the door, feeling almost apologetic but not quite when a haggard looking Greg answers the door, hair ruffled and wearing a white wife-beater over a pair of loose navy shorts. He looks happy to see them, but in an exhausted sort of way.

‘Do you have a ladder?’ Mycroft asks with an exaggerated wince, as though this were the only place they had left to turn to. Greg huffs out a breathy laugh.

‘She got you too, huh? Yeah, hold on a tick.’

Mycroft stares down pointedly at Greg’s bare feet on the tiles, cushion abandoned somewhere near the wall, and Greg shrugs.

‘It’s cold season,’ he explains. Anthea clears her throat loudly beside Mycroft, raising her eyebrows, but he shakes his head at her.

\--

Greg puts both of their lights up for them, stretching on the ladder to do so. Mycroft stares at his shoulders and Anthea stares lower, making a half-hearted joke involving tools. Mycroft murmurs his agreement and they lapse into silence.

\--

Mycroft has the worst day at work he’s had in a long time and his months of building confidence and contentment crash down around his ears. Irene’s down with what she’s calling the flu and Anthea is going through one of her disappearing phases, house dark and vacant as it’s been every day this week. Mycroft doesn’t think Greg would appreciate the responsibility of cheering up his mess of a neighbour right now so he goes home and collapses straight onto his bed.

He lies very still, focussing on his breathing and absolutely nothing else.

It’s tedious and it’s horrible and he doesn’t want to be one of _those_ people, one of those people who dwell on their misery, one of those people who are obsessed with their job and don’t have a life or any friends. He doesn’t want to be the person he grew up thinking he would become, pressure on his shoulders from the time he could walk, resigned too early on in life that happiness was a commodity too hard to work for, too much effort for so little achieved.

He doesn’t want to _be_ the him he was before. He wants to be this him _now_ , Mycroft who has tea with worried neighbours and attends weekly dinners and ridiculous parties thrown for no good reason. He wants to be Anthea’s friend and Greg’s friend and he _does_ think of Pleasant Mrs Hudson as a motherly figure, he _does_.

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, not now that he’s found family at last.

He calls Molly, attempting a false cheer over some mundane questions about her day. And Gentle Molly, darling Molly with her beautiful caring nature, sees right through him and demands he come over for dinner.

He sits in a warm dining room with warm soup and laughs at the seamless banter between Jim and Molly, thinking back to all those weeks ago when he sat a terrified Henry down in his kitchen and forced tea and light conversation on him.

He gets it now. He understands.

\--

About a week later, Mycroft is woken by Anthea crawling into his bed.

‘I have to get up in an hour,’ he groans at her. She gives a hearty elongated ‘no’ in response and all but melts into his mattress.

‘I’m not going to move when you do,’ she mumbles to him. He’s too tired to open his mouth again but he nods against the pillow as best he can. ‘You’re invited to Mrs H’s Christmas Lunch on Thursday,’ is the last thing he hears before he falls back to sleep.

\--

She’s still asleep in his bed when he gets home from work, but there are clean dishes in the drying-up wrack downstairs and an open novel has been abandoned beside her.

\--

Every spare decoration in the city, it seems, has been relegated to Mrs Hudson’s house. It’s decked in tinsel and streamers, the bannisters hidden beneath fairy lights, candles alight on every available surface. The sight makes Mycroft yearn for a childhood he never had, the untameable excitement over a holiday that has never really meant that much to Mycroft in the first place. Sherlock’s eyes are bright as he unwinds his scarf, fingers rubbing together as he studies the nearest set of baubles.

‘Maudlin,’ Mycroft murmurs to him, and Sherlock turns to him with a smile.

‘Domestic,’ he says with feigned condescension, heading without hesitation into Mrs Hudson’s waiting arms. Anthea appears from the archway into the living room, bounding past them to wield a string of tinsel at Mycroft.

She knots it around his neck, face flushed and hands warm at Mycroft’s throat. He pulls her to him and laughs.

\--

‘Wait!’ Anthea all but screams, and both Mycroft and Sherlock freeze where they are passing each other in the doorway. Anthea gleefully points to the ceiling, where a little sprig of green leaves has been adorned.

‘That’s not even mistletoe,’ Mycroft tells her with a pointed look. Sherlock, to his credit, just smiles thinly.

‘I’m glad you’re my brother,’ he says lowly, taking the record for least amount of contact when hugging. Mycroft doesn’t mind, too stunned to notice anything past the fact that Sherlock approves of him. Sherlock loves him, he knows, it’s ingrained deep into both of them. And he’s never once sought Sherlock’s approval, nor really considered whether he was in possession of it or not, but this feeling now is nice. At the risk of becoming overly sentimental with Christmas spirit, it’s… gratifying.

Mycroft has no time to respond before Sherlock is halfway across the room, but Anthea has her hands clasped over her mouth and is bouncing on her toes.

‘A Christmas miracle!’ she cries, and Mycroft can’t help but concur. ‘Now,’ she links her arm through his, leaning in conspiringly, ‘let’s go find Greg.’

\--

Greg, as it turns out, is upstairs having his photo taken with Mrs Hudson and John. The three of them are proudly showing off their matching Christmas sweaters – adorned with Santas, kittens and reindeers, respectively. Henry is fumbling over the camera buttons, sporting the largest grin Mycroft has seen on him yet.

‘Do you like it?’ Greg asks when he spots them, spreading his arms out and spinning. His hair, gradually growing out, has been combed to the side. From beneath his jumper pokes buttoned shirt cuffs, and a neat black belt holds up his slacks. He looks sharp, almost as sharp as Sharp Jim, in his own Greg kind of way.

Anthea coos over him for a while, stroking her fingers down the soft sweater for entirely longer than is necessary. ‘So soft,’ she muses, and beckons Mycroft over. ‘Touch this,’ she demands, and if she thinks she’s being subtle, she’s really not. Mycroft shoots Greg a withering look, but even he is gesturing for Mycroft to touch the red wool.

‘Very soft,’ he confirms. ‘You look very smart,’ he adds. Greg’s smile kicks up a notch.

‘And you?’ Greg says, waving a hand at Mycroft. ‘Very handsome.’

Behind him, Anthea jumps up and down, hands clasping the sides of her head and mouthing something like ‘oh my god’ at Mycroft. He tries to ignore her.

‘Hey,’ Greg says suddenly, as if just remembering. He grabs Mycroft’s arm. ‘Come with me, I have something for you.’

Anthea makes swooning motions and Mycroft turns his back on her.

\--

‘I didn’t, umm—’ They’re sitting in the living room, strangely devoid of people at present time. Greg holds the newspaper wrapped object out to him, and Mycroft takes it gently. ‘—have anything to wrap it with.’

Mycroft feels the guilt begin to blossom inside him, begins to apologise hastily at having nothing in return.

‘No,’ Greg cuts him off, looking almost embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing, it’s just… I just thought you should have it.’ He puts his hand on the back of neck, rubbing his fingers up into his own hair. Mycroft quickly turns his face away, tugging at the newspaper.

‘Thank you,’ he says, running his fingers over the thin book’s cover. ‘It looks like a children’s book.’ He freezes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, sure he must look like a fish out of water as he gapes at Greg. ‘I’m so sorry, that was rude.’

Greg laughs. ‘No, it is a children’s book. I thought you might have recognised it, actually.’ Mycroft shakes his head no. ‘Good,’ Greg grins. ‘Then trust me on this one. I think… well, I don’t mean to make assumptions, but I think you might enjoy it. I hope you will.’

‘Oh.’ Mycroft looks down at the cover again, the little boy in the strange green suit. ‘Thank you,’ he says again, with more feeling this time. He’s sure he shouldn’t feel as genuinely touched as he does, but the book has _To Mycroft_ scrawled on the title page and it’s personal, it was purchased with so singular an intention in mind, and Mycroft feels close to giddy as he touches the inscription. ‘This so very wonderful. I cannot wait to read it, honestly.’

‘Great,’ Greg says, and leans in too quickly for Mycroft to process until Greg’s arms are around him. Mycroft clutches the red jumper in his hands, closes his eyes and breathes.

\--

The lunch itself is a great affair with crackers and paper hats and Greg doing an impromptu rendition of Plastic Bertrand's _Ça Plane Pour Moi_ dance, Jim cackling long after it’s finished. Even Sherlock has a good chuckle, collecting up everyone’s little cracker knick-knacks and adding them to the pile that John has begun in front of him.

Mrs Hudson starts up a spontaneous carolling session between lunch and dessert which somehow turns into a chant of ‘kiss, kiss, kiss!’ to Molly and Jim (who comply), and then to Anthea and Mycroft (who don’t). Mrs Hudson seems oddly put out until Greg presses a smacking kiss to her cheek and she swats him away, her face a rosy flush. To be fair, Mycroft thinks that’s more due to the wine than Greg’s ministrations.

Henry, having mastered the camera button, entertains himself by snapping shots from every angle until John takes it from him and passes it to Sherlock, ushering Henry in for a ‘street family photo’. Mycroft thinks he may have blinked in every photo, but he’s feeling too loose-limbed to mind.

He and John take over washing up duty and as the others clear away plates and collapse around the living room with brandies and mince pies. He’s only just snapped off the marigolds when Anthea announces her leave, everyone getting to their feet again and shuffling around in a sort of hugging-circle. Mycroft reluctantly spots an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone and begins his goodbyes also, noticing that John and Sherlock are still hugging by the time he’s gone through both Jim and Molly.

Greg comes to the door with them, staying outside until he is just a tiny waving figure in Mycroft’s review mirror.

\--

Sherlock’s good mood diminishes as they draw closer to the outskirts of the city. He hunches his shoulders at the sight of the familiar gravel driveway.

‘I don’t want to see him,’ he says under his breath when Mycroft pulls the car up.

‘I know,’ Mycroft responds, feeling able for the first time to rest his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

\--

Christmas dinner is decidedly more undertoned. If Mycroft were to put pleasantries aside he would call it outright dull. Father asks all the questions they expect him to, and they take turns reciting practised answers. Mummy tries to put on a good spirit but Mycroft can see that she’s tired and she excuses herself not long after the meal, kissing both her boys’ foreheads and murmuring how pleased she is to see them home again.

Father offers them both a scotch, which Mycroft accepts out of obligation and Sherlock does not. His father starts in on the politics not long after that and Mycroft indulges him for a while, bringing up a few of Jim’s theories and seeing his father think them over carefully, which is nice. Father is not always the most considerate of men. He is a good man, certainly, but a misunderstood one. Mycroft understands that better than Sherlock does.

With Mummy out for the count and Father off to join her, Mycroft joins Sherlock in the sitting room where he is reading, of all things, a hardbound version of _Grimms' Fairy Tales_. It makes it a little easier for Mycroft to sit across from him and pull out his own children’s book.

He reads the _To Mycroft_ again, sitting at an angle above the printed _The Little Prince_ , and feels the scotch or perhaps something else make his head swim a little. He turns to the front page and smiles wryly at the little picture there.

 _Once when I was six years old_ , he begins, and is immediately captivated, finding himself endlessly charmed by the little prince and his simple outlook on life. He gets sucked in to the journey, the businessman striking just a little too close to home, the fox’s voice in his head taking on a gravely tone rather close to Greg’s. He doesn’t put the slim novel down until he reaches _He did not cry out. He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand_ , where after he sets it down in his lap, feeling it only right to mourn just for a moment.

He glances briefly over to Sherlock, who has slouched down over time and now has the book so close to his nose that Mycroft is surprised he can still read properly. He casts his attention back down to the book’s final chapter, just a few short pages long. He reads the last words with a small pang, staring hard at the simple drawing that accompanies it. Then he turns back to the front, reads _To Mycroft_ again, and feels so suddenly overwhelmed that he could be so inclined to cry.

He doesn’t, bidding Sherlock a Merry Christmas and goodnight instead, leaving the warmth of the sitting room to find his bedroom instead, cold and damp from the old brick walls.

He lies between his sheets and feels so suddenly at loss, so unexpectedly homesick that his want for Anthea and Greg to be here nearly feels a physical ache.

\--

‘Stop!’ Anthea’s voice calls to him before he can set foot inside her house. ‘Don’t touch the floor, it’s lava!’

‘Have you been talking to Greg?’ Mycroft asks, waiting patiently at the door. The man in question comes sliding around the corner on a towel, pushing himself along with a mop. It’s not going nearly as smoothly as Mycroft supposes he hopes it is.

‘I only mentioned it in passing,’ Greg says apologetically, throwing a tea towel onto the patch of floor between them.

‘You’re a grown woman,’ he tells Anthea sternly when he finds her, teetering in an uncomfortable splits position between two pillows, grasping the kitchen bench to keep herself balanced.

‘He’s going to say the word!’ Greg says gleefully from behind him.

‘Oh yes, Mycroft.’ Anthea pulls herself upright, sparing no grace in the motion. ‘Do tell me more.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ he says, crossing his arms.

‘Ridiculous, ridiculous!’ Greg and Anthea crow in unison, both making a mad scramble around him to climb up onto the kitchen table.

‘Level two!’ Anthea announces. Greg waves his hands urgently at Mycroft.

‘The lava’s rising! Get up higher, My!’

Mycroft rubs his temple with his thumb and forefinger, eyes closed.

‘One, two, three, four, we spy a corpse on the lava floor!’ they call in unison again.

‘You’re no fun,’ Anthea informs him, hopping down from the table. Mycroft jumps when he feels sudden hands squeezing his shoulders, rubbing forcefully at his neck. He holds in the noise he would like to make.

‘He’s just tired,’ Greg says lowly, right in Mycroft’s ear. He opens his eyes and Anthea is giving him the least subtle look in the world. He scowls at her until the ministrations on his shoulders become too good to not devote his full attention to. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ Greg purrs.

Mycroft hums (groans), nodding his head lazily. ‘I read your book,’ he mumbles, barely moving his lips.

‘And did you like it?’

Greg is so close, so very close, and if Mycroft were in a position to think right now it would make him wonder, it really would. ‘It was incredible,’ he croons. ‘Just wonderful.’

‘I’m glad,’ Greg chuckles into his ear. ‘You can tell me more about it later, but for now, come on.’ He claps his hands suddenly on Mycroft’s back and Mycroft starts. ‘You’re falling asleep on us.’

When Mycroft looks, Anthea has physically covered her mouth with her hands to stop anything untoward escaping. 

\--

Mycroft feels okay. He wakes up and stares at the ceiling and thinks everything is okay. He reassesses the human condition to ignore beauty where it exists and thinks he’s found one of those tiny bubbles that are the exception to the rule. This street. This is his little slice of beauty. It’s what the brochure tried to tell him with the wrong words and the wrong pictures.

The camaraderie, the community, the fancy words and alliteration techniques that really just mean here are some people who are fragile and beautiful and defy every preconception you once had about the human race. Here are some people for you to take care of, and to take care of you. It’s friendship, and it’s not the piece of cheese in the trap that Mycroft has wasted years of his life navigating, perception of one part temptation to three parts defeat. It’s not any of that, it’s just the fragility of mankind, the suspicion borne into every nation. Fear that the benefit of the doubt doesn’t exist.

It’s been here all along, and Mycroft has not once thought it attainable, even in the palm of his hand. He remembers Greg dancing on his coffee table and singing _our house in the middle of our street_ and thinks he should have noticed then. It doesn’t matter. He sees it now.

He feels okay. 

\--

Morning of New Year’s Eve finds Anthea barging into his kitchen whilst Mycroft is mid-sip, a pleased looking Greg and a guilty looking Henry marching single file behind her.

‘We’re making breakfast,’ she declares, dumping a plastic bag of groceries near his elbow. ‘See the year out properly and all.’ She puts her hands on her hips, postured as though bracing for refusal.

‘That sounds nice,’ Mycroft says weakly, folding his newspaper and setting it neatly beside him.

‘Yeah, and we’re watching _Snatch_ ,’ Greg chimes in, waving the DVD in Mycroft’s face as he passes, intent on browsing the tea cupboard. Mycroft knows this because he’s done it every time he’s visited so far, pulling out every tiny carton and reading each label with an increasing sense of wonderment.

‘Do you have a pan?’ Henry asks, flicking the stove on. Anthea directs him with the wave of a hand at the same time that she lifts and drains Mycroft’s teacup.

‘Get dressed,’ she demands, and Mycroft shoots her a worried look over the sudden clanging of crockery and clinking of mugs before leaving to comply.

\--

They’ve just made it through the movie – only barely, on Henry’s part – when Sally shows up, beers in one hand and a twister mat in the other. The four of them talk loudly over Mycroft’s protests until he snatches up the spinning board in despair, content for the moment that he’s spared himself excessive embarrassment.

The game turns into a disaster of limbs, as Mycroft had expected, although it has little to do with the nature of the game and everything to do with Anthea and Sally trying to sabotage (touch) everyone (each other).

They roll Mycroft up in the mat afterwards and he closes his eyes and wonders what his father would think could only he see him now. The thought makes him smile.

\--

 _The floor is lava_ starts up again around dusk, and Mycroft understands the standing on tables but doesn’t understand the trend everyone’s started in holding their beers are high as they can over their heads.

Greg’s phone breaks the atmosphere and they all hang suspended as adulthood momentarily catches up to them, Greg sounding very solemn as he reels off instructions to the person on the other end. He hangs up and Sally pushes him off the table and they forget once more.

\--

Mycroft is ready for bed before they’ve even left for the pub, and come midnight he is slumped barely conscious in their booth. The countdown takes him by surprise, Greg’s large, warm hands suddenly cupping his ears to shield him from the worst of the noise.

‘Look,’ Greg says afterward, physically turning Mycroft’s head for him. Mycroft takes one look at Anthea and Sally, thinks good for them but he really didn’t want to see that, and tries to recapture his pleasant sleepy mood. Greg chuckles and Mycroft flops his head over onto his own shoulder to look at Greg.

Greg stares back, and Mycroft can’t quite pinpoint his emotion. He suddenly feels very awake.

‘Happy New Year,’ Greg says with a gentle smile, and turns his face away.

\--

Mycroft goes back to work. Irene laments over the sudden addition of Sally to his stories and then dismisses her infatuation with Anthea nearly as quickly as she had developed it. By afternoon she’s buckled down into work mode and Mycroft leaves the office feeling more on top of things than he has in the past six months.

\--

Sally asks Anthea on a date. Mycroft can hear her response from his bedroom.

\--

Mrs Hudson is in high spirits, smile almost as bright as John’s for the brief moment the boy’s downstairs, collecting an armful of items with no discernable association. Jim and Molly had been dancing across the living room but Jim is currently giggling too hard to do anything but stand, one hand over his mouth, the other raised high in the air under which Molly is spinning. Even Henry is laughing in that boyish way of his.

Greg isn’t laughing. He’s on the sofa next to Mycroft, biting the edge of his thumb, glancing consistently out of the window. Mycroft supposes he’s nervous. He is very close to both Sally and Anthea, after all. He stands a lot to lose.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Mycroft leans in to say at the same time that Greg leans in to him. Greg’s chin touches his just briefly before the man pulls away apologetically.

‘Sorry,’ Greg says quickly and looks down. Mycroft tosses a few calculations up in his head then throws caution to the wind and rests his hand over Greg’s. Greg doesn’t look up at him, but he smiles.

‘I want to do something stupid,’ he says softly. Mycroft glances over at Mrs Hudson, wrapped in Jim’s arms, Molly coaxing Henry into an easy box-step. John is near the bottom of the stairs, trying to tug Sherlock down after him. Mycroft tilts his head, angling himself a bit more toward Greg.

‘Oh?’ he asks.

Greg shakes his head a little, huffs out a mirthless laugh. ‘You never say what you’re really thinking, do you?’ he murmurs.

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s never been the most studious when it comes to articulating his emotions. Half the time he’s not even sure what he’s experiencing. Some people just know, can look at a colour wheel and pinpoint exactly where they stand, express it without even trying. Someone had explained it to him like that, once, proclaimed herself a bright purple and launched straight into a lecture on auras. Mycroft’s never paid much attention to the theory outside of the fact that he thinks he must be a steady line of tones. He doesn’t know what Greg is, but, whatever it is, it’s bright.

He licks his lips and says nothing. Greg looks up at him at last, sits straight and leans in close. It’s a hug, Mycroft knows it’s a hug, but Greg’s hand is on one side of his face, stubbed jaw pressing to the other.

‘You’re spectacular, My,’ he rumbles, pressing a kiss just beneath Mycroft’s cheekbone and disappearing abruptly from his personal space.

Mycroft follows without thinking, and when he fits his mouth against Greg’s it’s with his friends’ chants of, ‘kiss, kiss, kiss!’ in the background.


End file.
